


Vengeance

by tsv



Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Oral Sex, Season 3, Supervillains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-26 08:35:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6231763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsv/pseuds/tsv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate universe branching off from the events of "The Doctor Is Sin", in which Henry Killinger successfully convinces Dr. Venture to pursue the path of a supervillain.</p><p>While initially wanting nothing to do with it, Brock receives orders from the O.S.I. to spy on Killinger and keep Doc in line, and ends up reluctantly acting the part of Rusty's number two. In the process, he finds himself forced to re-examine his own morals in unexpected ways, as well as his complicated feelings for his new 'partner'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The Doctor Is Sin is one of my favorite episodes. I love the ambiguity of it, how close Rusty comes to giving in. So I wanted to examine the idea: what if he did? How would Brock react? How would his sons react? Could Rusty plausibly become a villain?
> 
> I'm not used to writing long pieces, but I tried my best. Enjoy!

They were too late.

Brock, Dr. Orpheus and the Alchemist had all burst into the room, ready to fight Killinger and whatever evils he had up his sleeve, only to find Dr. Venture calmly putting the finishing touches on his signature, written in his own blood. On a document from the Guild of Calamitous Intent, no less.

Brock felt cold sweat on his back.

"Are you quite _mad_ , sir? Arch-villainy? Have you no understanding of the dark path upon which you have just set foot?" Orpheus was the first to voice his outrage. "You have been— been _seduced_ into evil's heaving bosom by this snake, this _worm_ , this—"

"Yeah, I get it, cut the speech," Rusty grumbled with a wave of his hand, settling heavily into a chair. Brock noticed that he was pointedly avoiding looking at any of them, which he knew to be a telltale sign of Doc feeling guilty, a bit of knowledge that eased the tightness in his chest a little. "I'm evil, how could you, blah-blah-blah."

Dr. Orpheus promptly fell into silence. Killinger waited patiently beside the superscientist with a comforting hand upon his shoulder, not showing any sign of offense at the necromancer's words.

"Listen. You guys can judge me all you want, but this is something I... think I need to try." Rusty continued to not look up, instead directing his distracted gaze out the window. "Killinger is right. Some part of me wanted this."

Brock looked over at Orpheus and the Alchemist beside him. Both of them looked a little stunned, like they hadn't really anticipated this confrontation would go down so anti-climactically.

"If that's the way you feel, then I suppose there is no changing your mind," Orpheus said solemnly. "I must say I am... sincerely disappointed in you, Dr. Venture."

"Join the club," Rusty said quietly.

A moment's pause and they were gone, leaving only Brock to stare at him in silence, uncertain of what he was feeling.

When he'd realized what Rusty had done by signing that page, when it'd slowly begun to sink in, the first emotion that had come to Brock's mind had been _betrayal_. He wasn't entirely sure why. Maybe because he'd spent so much time convincing himself that Doc was a good person, or at least not as bad a person as he seemed, not as shallow as he acted to everyone else. He'd pretty much had to convince himself of that to make his job livable.

And now, witnessing this felt like throwing all of that in the trash.

Eventually, Rusty actually looked up at him. He looked hurt, and like he was visibly bracing himself for more. "So are you gonna leave too, or what?"

"I'm gonna need some time to think about this one, Doc," Brock said, turning and leaving without looking back, trying not to imagine what expression his words would provoke.

He was only half-lying. He did need time to think, but he didn't have any intention of staying.

—

Brock left in his car the very next morning, not long after putting the finishing touches on what he intended to be his final report on the Ventures' activity. He took a duffel bag of essentials with him, figuring he'd pick up the rest in subsequent weeks.

Catching sight of the boys in the hallway, however briefly, had been enough to make him reconsider. His chest hurt thinking about the smiles they'd given him, not knowing he was going to be gone from their lives, after having been a part of them for so long. But even if he'd wanted to stay with Doc playing at being a villain, the O.S.I. wasn't going to be happy when they heard the news. That much was certain.

It didn't take him long to get to a local O.S.I. drop-off point, where an unmarked helicopter was waiting to carry him to the floating headquarters. He could've called it in, but business like this was always better conducted in person.

On arrival, he earned a few strange looks, especially being out of uniform, but nobody bothered to question him. Not with his size, nor the scowl fixed to his face. The entire place was a case of deja vu in the strangest sense — felt and smelled different, even if it looked largely the same, except for the people running it. Lot of faces he didn't recognize.

Brock still remembered the location of General Treister's office, even if it'd been over a decade and a half. Stepping inside, he didn't bother to salute — he wasn't in uniform and the broad-shouldered, bushy-eyebrowed man was looking at his unsolicited presence like a shitstain on his shoe, so he figured he'd better make this quick.

"Agent Samson. I'm here for my reassignment." Brock pulled the report out of his bag and dropped it neatly in front of the older man, landing on top of a pile of scattered papers.

General Treister stared at him evenly from behind the desk, brows furrowing. "I don't seem to recall you being taken off Operation Rusty's Blanket, Agent Samson."

"Yeah, well, I kind of assumed him deciding to become a supervillain was grounds for the operation being terminated."

He gestured to the paper, which his superior then picked up, leafing through it before lifting his head with an incredulous look. Treister let out a sharp bark of humorless laughter. "A supervillain? The Venture boy? You must be pullin' my leg. Since when?"

Brock sighed, shifting his eyes to the side. Everything felt a little bit hollow, like he still couldn't believe it himself. "Since yesterday. Signed with the Guild and everything."

"The hell brought that on?"

"Some guy named Henry Killinger came in a few weeks ago, told Doc he was some kinda 'life coach'. Orchestrated the whole thing from start to finish."

An eerie silence followed his words. Brock hadn't known he was dropping some sort of bombshell, but it certainly felt like he had.

Treister's voice then took on a deadly serious tone, staring him right in the eye. "Killinger. You're damn sure that was the name?"

"Positive."

The general shuffled some of the papers in front of him, averting his gaze for a long moment, as if debating the best course of action. He then drew his eyes back up to Brock's face.

"Samson, I want you to continue your work as the Venture son's bodyguard."

Brock was so taken aback that he actually scoffed, eyes widening. "Seriously? Sir, I just told you he's a fucking _villain_. Or is the O.S.I. offering its 'protection' to bad guys now?"

"You could say Killinger is a central 'person of interest' to one of the O.S.I.'s investigations, Agent. And you and I both know Venture is an idiot, but he could do some real damage with his daddy's old machines." Treister leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head and propping his legs up on the desk. "So I want you to keep an eye on him and his little... 'life coach'. Keep him in check. Find out more."

"You want me to spy on him," Brock said slowly. He was liking this idea less and less by the second.

"Smart boy."

—

Apparently, Doc had been expecting him to return about as much as Brock had expected to come back in the first place, judging by the look of surprise on the scientist's face when he walked into the lab.

"Oh," Rusty said carefully, as if testing the waters. "You're back."

A surprising number of blueprints were spread out underneath the man's arms. Brock had rarely seen him work so hard — shame about the circumstances, really.

"Yeah," Brock replied evenly, crossing the room to stand beside him. "I am."

Rusty fidgeted in nervous anticipation. Somehow, that gaudy little supervillain outfit made him appear even smaller and less intimidating than normal. Aside from that, it wasn't even a bad look for him.

Brock sighed heavily as he placed a hand on the smaller man's shoulder, easily eclipsing it with the size of his palm, feeling him flinch.

He could barely believe the words that were about to come out of his goddamn mouth.

"So you're gonna need a number two, right?"


	2. Chapter 2

"So Pop," began his son, and Rusty already felt the vein in his temple beginning to throb. "are you, like... _evil_ now?"

"'Evil' is _extremely_ relative, Hank," Rusty sighed, not looking up from the paperwork he was signing. "Mother Teresa was a crook and Gandhi was actually kind of an asshole. It's not black and white."

If he'd known that this 'villain' thing was going to involve so much bureaucratic nonsense, he might've reconsidered. But Killinger had assured him these last few papers would largely be the end of it, barring any unforeseen complications, so at least there was that.

"Sooooo... is that a yes?"

He finally looked up, surprised to find that Hank's expression was actually kind of worried, which made something twist unpleasantly in his gut. "Don't you have something to _do_?"

Hank frowned deeply at him and turned to leave, pausing only to gawk as Brock passed him in the hall. Rusty felt himself gawking a bit too — the man had apparently gotten the wardrobe treatment from Killinger, wearing a black jumpsuit with bright blue accents not so different from his own, such as a folded collar and gloves. The blue straps drawn down over his shoulders met to buckle in the middle, creating the silhouette of a "V".

He certainly filled it out better, the contours of muscle clearly visible through the spandex, not unlike one of Brock's tight t-shirts.

"Tell me I don't have to wear this crap, Doc," Brock said, gesturing down to himself with clear irritation in his voice.

"Pretty sure the costumes are non-optional for this, uh..." Rusty glanced past Brock at his son still on the edge of the room, avoiding saying 'villain' outright. "Profession. Maybe you could have some alterations done."

"Ja, alterations are certainly a possibility," said Killinger, and Rusty flinched, not sure how long the man had even been there without him noticing. That had been happening with a disturbing frequency. "Ve can adjust ze outfit however you please, Mr. Samson."

Brock looked a little put off, too, like he hadn't noticed the good doctor's arrival either. He noted the tightness in the man's jaw, the hand on the hilt of his knife. A tense sigh rattled out of him. "Yeah, uh... might have to go back to the drawing board on this one."

"I vill have my tailor draw up some concepts for your perusal," Killinger rumbled calmly, turning to leave. "In ze meantime, perhaps you two should discuss your plan of action."

"Plan of what?" Rusty lowered his glasses.

"Ze vay in vhich you are going to go about arching your brother."

"Oh," Rusty mumbled, looking down at the papers in front of him. "Yeah, um... we'll get right on that."

He waited until both Killinger and Hank were gone to speak, looking up at his bodyguard-turned-accomplice. That still felt completely unreal — he didn't think Brock would go along with any of this, period, let alone offer to be his partner.

Despite his new number two's seeming lack of enthusiasm, the gesture actually left him feeling more than a little touched, though it probably shouldn't have. What was the saying again — a good friend hires you a lawyer, a best friend helps you bury the body himself?

"So... plan of action."

Brock gave a noncommittal grunt.

Rusty nervously drummed his fingers on the desk. "I was thinking we could fly out there with the X-1, once they're finished painting over it with the new colors."

Another grunt.

"And... maybe we could... I don't know, _kidnap_ him? Dangle him over a pit of alligators? I think the Monarch did that to me once." He looked down, rubbing his chin. It felt strange having to actually think about the logistics of these things for once. He'd taken for granted the thought that went into all the absurd antics that his various nemeses had put him through. "Actually — where the hell did he even get the gators in the first place?"

Brock didn't even reply this time. Rusty wrinkled his brow in irritation. "Brock? Are you even listening to me?"

The larger man barely twitched. "Sorry. I was thinking about something else."

"Well— get your head in the game. Did you decide on a supervillain name yet?"

"Nah." Brock fished around in the compartments on his outfit for a moment, before finally coming up with a pack of cigarettes. "You still going with uh— 'Revenge' or whatever?"

" _Vengeance,_ " Rusty corrected. "Because it— because it starts with Ven. _Ven_ geance. Venture. You get it?"

"Yeah... I got it."

Rusty sighed irritably at Brock not sounding the slightest bit impressed, turning back to his paperwork. "No smoking in the lab."

—

Admittedly, despite his initial desire to leave, Brock was happy for the opportunity to see the boys again, to continue keeping an eye on them. He wasn't exactly keen on the idea of them being raised by a supervillain, or them being left alone with Dr. Killinger for too long, not that the man seemed to be doing anything too sinister so far.

Despite all of his experience with reading people, he couldn't figure out for the life of him what Killinger's motives were. He did all of this pro-bono, which was bizarre in a world of villains staking absurd demands to benefit their own designs. Brock couldn't believe that all he wanted was to help Doc reach his 'true calling'. Was the idea of corrupting a son of Venture, a bloodline known for its ties to the forces of good, its own reward?

Brock stared at his ceiling. If the O.S.I. was so interested in him, then whatever Killinger's end goal was, it couldn't have been good. But they had stubbornly refused to tell him any more than he needed to know on that front, which had only made him more suspicious in turn.

He tried not to think about it too much, instead trying to will himself to sleep, head turned against his pillow in the dark. But then he became suddenly, acutely aware of something.

_He was not alone._

Brock's eyes snapped open. That level breathing coming from the center of the room hadn't been there a second ago, had it? He would've noticed, wouldn't he? And yet, the door and window were both closed. He would've heard the vent.

_How did they get in?_

Slowly, he looked over, and felt a chill grip his spine. A pair of wide orange circles peered down at him through the darkness.

Killinger.

Brock's hand twitched. He wanted to grab for the knife under his pillow, but his arm refused to budge from its position on the sheet. A shock of something like fear ran through him as he came to a grim realization.

_He couldn't move._

He tried, of course, but it was like an invisible weight pinned down his entire body. The more he strained, the more impossible it felt. Every muscle in his body felt simultaneously tensed up and immobile.

"Did you not think I vould learn of your subterfuge, you silly billy?" Killinger's voice was as calm as ever, and held seemingly no enmity. "Dr. Venture may be naive enough to believe an O.S.I. agent vould be villingly in the service of a supervillain, but I am not."

A long pause, as if allowing for a reply, before the doctor continued his ominous speech. "How do you think Dr. Venture vill feel when he discovers your deception? How he vould react to knowing you are here with an ulterior motive?"

"Is that—" Brock coughed, then felt the pressure lighten on his lungs, as if Killinger was deliberately allowing him to speak. "supposed to be a threat?"

"No, Mr. Samson. No, ze only enemy you are facing here is your own conscience."

"The hell is that supposed to mean?"

Killinger chuckled in the darkness. The orange lights swayed. "I am merely curious vhether or not you vill truly find yourself able to betray your 'employer', vith all you have been through together."

Brock took a deep breath to steady himself. More than anything, he wanted to leap across the room, slug the man in the jaw. But all he could do was grit his teeth. "If they asked me to, I'd kill him in a heartbeat."

"Are you so sure?"

More silence. Brock didn't feel the need to repeat himself.

"Vell zhen. Ve vill see if you still hold those opinions, once you have spent time as a team." The lights darkened, then extinguished entirely.

With that, the pressure on Brock's body finally lightened, leaving him laying there in a cold sweat, staring at the space where Killinger had been.

He didn't sleep for hours.


	3. Chapter 3

True to Rusty's somewhat flimsy 'plan of action', as soon as the X-1 was finished being painted in a handsome shade of black and blue with "Vengeance's" new logo on the side, they got in and began navigating their way towards Spider Skull Island.

Brock had been reluctant to leave the boys behind, but as much as he wanted to keep them under his supervision as much as possible considering their new bedfellows, he also didn't want them to bear witness to their father hoisting their uncle over a pit of _spiders_. Or what have you. He hadn't really been listening when Doc had described that part of the plan.

He shifted uncomfortably in the pilot's seat — which, much like the rest of the plane, had been reupholstered and repainted — half from the spandex costume starting to ride up, half from the knowledge that the plane was host to a dozen or so "Venchmen", along with Killinger. The man had insisted on coming along to supervise Doc's first arching.

Brock much preferred when it was just them and the boys, give or take H.E.L.P.eR., with nobody else on board. It made him tense, even with the knowledge that they were behind a door in the rear cabin, leaving the two of them alone in the cockpit. More bodies meant more variables to worry about on a mission, meant more things could go wrong.

Not to mention that Killinger's visit last night — something he still wasn't completely certain hadn't been a sleep paralysis-induced hallucination — had left him feeling even more unsettled in the man's presence.

He let his eyes stray from the windshield to his passenger. Rusty was visibly nervous, but also visibly trying to look anything _but_ nervous, adjusting the straps on his little costume.

Admittedly, the scientist's general reluctance around this entire thing had left him feeling very slightly more sympathetic than before. Doc wasn't eagerly rushing headfirst into evil the way Brock had initially thought — he was trying to find something that felt right and good in a world that had offered him very little of those two things. That was understandable in its own way, even if he was a moron for thinking he'd get it from this particular venue.

It didn't make it right. But it did make him feel marginally better about being the man's partner in crime, so to speak, even if it was just a front for his O.S.I. surveillance.

"So... we're not gonna _kill_ him or anything," Rusty said, finally breaking the silence. "Even if I wanted to, Killinger said that's generally a _no-go_ on the 'first date'. We're just... gonna make a scene. Shake him up a little. Let him know what we're about."

"You gonna try to do one of those evil monologues or something?"

"Oh, God, should I?" Rusty laughed nervously, and something about it was kind of endearing. "I don't think I could. How the hell do they just improvise those things on the spot? I wonder if The Monarch has his own speechwriter."

"I doubt it, with how stupid he sounds most of the time," Brock replied, and felt himself smirk. His companion chuckled in agreement, leaving the atmosphere in the cockpit already feeling a few degrees lighter.

He still couldn't believe they were doing this.

—

"You can't be serious. _Arching_ me?"

They didn't have any alligators, so Rusty had settled for having Brock tie J.J. to a chair, something that hadn't exactly proved difficult — Brock had likened it to 'like picking up an angry baby'. Rusty was pacing menacingly, or at least his best attempt at menacingly, back and forth in front of his sibling, while Killinger waited helpfully nearby.

"No, J.J., I just flew out here to tie you to a chair while I showed off my new hypothetical _bad-guy_ costume. _Of course I'm fucking serious._ " Rusty held out his gloved palms incredulously. "I'm a supervillain now. And I'm starting with you."

"Come now, big brother, why would you want to fight me?" J.J. squirmed against his bonds, and glared over his shoulder as Brock tied up Sally in a second chair a few feet behind him. "What reason could you possibly have to become my _archenemy_?"

"Oh, I don't know, how about the fact that you're always stealing the spotlight now?" Rusty irritably threw his hands up. He was actually starting to get into this, body language becoming more exaggerated as he spoke, gestures fueled by genuine resentment for his brother. "Or laughing behind my back at how much money I'm not making? It's always Jonas this, J.J. that— how about, I don't know, a little _T.S._ for a change?"

His sibling's expression was starting to fall from its forced smile into a more natural glower, kicking his small legs in a fruitless attempt to get free. "This is ridiculous. I can't believe that you even got Samson to go along with it. Does the O.S.I. know you're doing this?"

"They know," Brock grumbled distantly, stepping away from Sally once he was finished.

"They do?" Rusty and J.J. said in nearly identical cadence, leaving both men pausing in surprise.

The larger man visibly hesitated, like he hadn't been expecting to be questioned on the subject. It took him a moment to reply. "Yeah. I, uh... quit."

Rusty blinked. Wow.

He felt daft for not having even considered the way the O.S.I. would react to this. Brock had been such an everpresent force in his life for so long, he sometimes forgot that he was technically there on assignment. Except now, that was apparently past tense.

This would mean that Brock had seriously given up his job as an O.S.I. agent, his entire career, just for him. For his deciding to try villainy on a whim. Did he really, genuinely mean that much to the man?

Rusty waited in stunned silence for a moment, before realizing this was probably his cue. Feeling a little more confident, he tried to stand up straighter, puffing his chest up and placing his hands on his hips triumphantly. "See? With my man Brock as my number two, nothing can stand in my way!"

Brock sighed. "In the way of _what_ , Doc? What exactly are we doing here?"

Dr. Killinger was the one to speak, next. "As ve speak, ze Venchmen are raiding ze lab on zis island, stealing important documents and blueprints critical to ze tiny Venture son's work."

"Industrial espionage? Are you kidding me?" J.J. scoffed, looking increasingly angry. "You can't make your own inventions, so you're stealing mine?"

The superscientist-turned-villain ignored the insult, smugly stepping forward to lean down, putting him at eye level with his sibling. "You'd better watch your ass, _Jonas_."

"Because from now on you're going to have to live your life in fear of _Vengeance!_ " Rusty snapped back up and thrust his fist into the sky with an obnoxious cackle, at which point Killinger burst into an eager round of applause, which made him slowly lower his fist with a bashful smile. "Good? Was that good?"

—

When they finally returned to the compound, it was past sunset, the sky a faded blue running together with dusky orange clouds. The Venchmen exited the plane ahead of them, carrying the spoils of their 'conquest', which Brock watched with mixed feelings stirring in him.

"Well... I actually did it. _We_ did it." Rusty sounded somewhere between excited and fatigued, flashing a smile up at him. "No turning back now."

He couldn't help but smile back, just a bit. Doc's nervous enthusiasm was infectious. "There's always gonna be a chance to go back, Doc."

Rusty waved his hand dismissively at him. "You quit the O.S.I. and I just arched my own _brother_. I think we burnt some bridges."

"Oh... yeah." Brock felt vaguely guilty, looking away. He'd forgotten about having been forced to address the matter of the O.S.I. earlier, and the resulting lie he'd come up with.

If Doc noticed anything strange about his tone, he didn't mention it, crossing in front of him and disembarking the X-1. Brock watched him silently as he went.

"Having second thoughts?" Killinger's low croak sounded from behind him, startling Brock badly enough that he whirled around and swung his fist in the direction of the voice, only to find nothing but emptiness where his punch landed.

He looked around in alarm, panting a little, body tensed up like a live beartrap, but he was seemingly completely alone in the cockpit. Even checking the rear cabin of the plane produced nothing. The only possible answer was that he'd imagined it, but at the same time, it had been so crisp, so _clear_ , as if the man had been right behind him.

Maybe he was starting to lose it.

"Brock? Are you coming or what? You're gonna miss dinner! We're having Mac & Cheese tonight!"

Brock ran a hand over his face with a heavy sigh, stepping out of the aircraft.

"Yeah, I'm coming."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Check out [this awesome fanart by backyardrumble](http://backyardrumble.tumblr.com/post/140961596727/i-got-inspired-to-draw-villain-rusty-after) inspired by my fic! So awesome, thank you so much!!!

"Seriously? You don't think that's a little, eh... extravagant?"

Brock was squinting incredulously out the window at the shiny silver statue of Doc in his Vengeance getup, tall as the Compound itself, a replacement for the monolith that had once stood in its place of Jonas Venture Sr. and his son.

"What, you don't like it? I thought it'd really make the headquarters 'pop'." Rusty closed his hands into fists then abruptly opened them wide to punctuate the sentence. Brock had noticed him being more emphatic in his gestures lately. "Make it obvious that there's a bad guy living here."

Rusty moved to stand beside him, folding his arms, admiring the statue himself with a growing grin as he continued. "I'm surprised they even managed to get it made so fast. It looks great."

Brock looked at him out of the corner of his eye. "You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were starting to enjoy this."

"I'm enjoying the redecorating if nothing else." He gestured around him at the living room, which had been repainted and reupholstered in shades of blue and black. It certainly did the job of making it look more sinister, and Brock had to admit he'd become a fan of the new leather furniture. "We've barely touched the damn place since we redid the kitchen years ago."

"It's been a week since we moved on J.J., have you heard anything from him since?"

Rusty shrugged, settling into one of the leather armchairs. "I got a strongly worded e-mail. That was about it."

Brock raised an eyebrow. "And you replied?"

"Oh, sure. With a picture of my ass."

He sighed, smearing his face into his palm, though it was admittedly amusing to picture the look that must've been on J.J.'s face when he opened that attachment. "Nice job, Doc."

"About zhat," came a low, even voice.

They both turned to find Killinger standing in the doorway, holding some papers.

"Your brother is not happy vith your games. And so he is refusing to play." Killinger strode across the room, offering them to Rusty, who took them and adjusted his glasses. "He has filed an injunction to prevent you from committing any acts of archvillainy against him or his family."

"What? He can't do that! He can't just... _decide_ that I don't get to arch him!" Rusty hesitated for a moment. "Can he? Is that a thing you can do? Why didn't anyone tell me? I could've gotten rid of that butterfly-costumed asshole ages ago!"

"You are right, he cannot." Killinger nodded. "Zere are loopholes in vhat he has tried to do that all villains exploit. But he has been thorough in his attempts. Ze legal system vill take some time to get through."

Brock watched as Doc stared, looking a little lost, down at the legalese in front of him. He spoke slowly, dejectedly. "So... what the hell do we do now?"

"We find another candidate." Brock replied with the obvious answer, prompting Rusty to look up in surprise.

Killinger smiled.

—

Later that evening as Doc busied himself with Guild brochures, Brock found himself leaning heavily against the wall outside of the boys' bedroom door, trying to prepare himself for a conversation he didn't want to have. He could hear their soft voices from within, knowing they hadn't yet gone to bed.

They still didn't know about what their father was getting up to, not that they hadn't been getting suspicious. But for as daft as the boys often were, Brock knew them to be smarter than they seemed. They were going to figure it out eventually, one way or another, whether it was from putting together the pieces themselves or reading about Rusty blowing up a building in a newspaper.

So if their own father wasn't going to tell them about it, then Brock would. He was the next best thing. They deserved to know, and to make their own decisions about what that meant.

He turned the doorknob and gradually eased it open, peeking inside. Both of the boys looked up from their respective activities — Dean, a novel, and Hank, a comic book. "Boys?"

"Hey, Brock," they said near-simultaneously as he closed the door behind him, pulling out a chair to sit where he could get a good look at both of them. The boys each seemed to be realizing from his expression that this was a Serious Conversation, putting away their distractions and sitting up straighter.

"Boys, I need to talk to you about your father." Brock began, settling down into the chair and leaning forward, knitting his fingers. "And me. And what we've been... doing together. What that means for the two of you."

The boys quietly exchanged a glance, then looked back up at him. Hank's face took on a grave expression.

"Are you saying that..."

A pregnant pause. Brock smiled wearily — for a second, he let himself actually believe that the boy had managed to figure it out, especially when Brock had walked in on him and his father having a conversation on the subject of 'evil' not that long ago. God willing, this was gonna save him some explanation time.

For as inattentive in his studies as he'd often been compared to his brother, there were times that Hank was remarkably perceptive. He caught onto little things that Dean didn't, or things that Dean simply didn't want to believe.

Hank's brows furrowed deeply. "...you and Dad are, like, gay?"

Unfortunately, it seemed that this was not one of those times.

Something in Brock's brain broke a little. His mouth fell open at a loss for words.

"What!? They're not — they're not like Uncle Gentleman!" Dean protested. "Dad and Brock are straight! Right? I mean, right? I mean, sure, they've been living together and — and raising us kind of like a mom and dad, but —"

"Naive as always, Dean-o! Have you SEEN the spandex Brock and Pop have been wearing?" Hank held up a finger like he was imparting some very important information. "You know what the Action Man told me? The only guys who wear spandex like that are superheroes, supervillains and queers, and —"

"Boys! Enough!" Brock yelled, firmly pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers, his cheeks feeling hot from embarrassment. That shut both of them right up, at least temporarily. "Hank, Dean's right. We're not _gay_. And I never wanna hear you say 'queer' like that again. Christ."

Hank went a little red, but that didn't stop him from running his mouth. "So... what _are_ you?"

"We're, uh..." Brock took in a deep breath and felt it abruptly shudder out of him, the words suddenly sticking in his throat. He tried again, with similar results.

He then realized that he was... actually feeling something akin to _shame_ at having to tell the boys this, and he didn't know why. If they were disappointed in him, did it really matter? He was only doing this as a front for O.S.I. work, wasn't he?

It should've been easy. He'd mentally rehearsed saying this. And yet, an image came to mind of Dean and Hank having to watch as he tied their uncle to a chair, and a stab of raw guilt pierced him. Why? It wasn't his damn fault.

The boys continued to look at him expectantly, their faces growing a little worried. He forced the words out, regardless of the consequences. "We're... supervillains."

Dean let out a gasp so theatrical that it would've been amusing in any other circumstance, covering his mouth. Hank gasped with similar effect, but of the two, his expression was much angrier.

"I know it's— it's a lot to take in..."

"So Pop _is_ a bad guy! I knew it!" Hank hissed, but then his face began to fall in recognition. Brock felt his heart sink in his chest. "But then— that means— Brock, you... you're supposed to be a..."

"A good guy. I know." Brock looked away, scratching the back of his neck. "But your dad... he needs this. And wherever he goes, I go. The alternative is me being gone, Hank."

Hank looked crestfallen, as if he hadn't considered that. Seeing that look, Brock now felt bad for the fact that, if not for his O.S.I. assignment changing, he would've been absent from the boys' lives already. Damn it. He was beset on all sides by guilt.

"So... you're like a bad guy who's actually a good guy?" Hank looked up at him hopefully. Both of them did.

Brock got up from his chair, placing his large hands down on the boys' shoulders in a comforting gesture, one for each of them. "Yeah. Just don't tell your father I said that."

"But then that means... Dad is a..." Dean piped weakly.

"Your father's not a bad guy either, Dean. He's... it's not black and white."


	5. Chapter 5

"He's fucking _WHAT_?"

The Monarch was staring down at the paper in front of him with shaking hands, a print-out of one of The Guild of Calamitous Intent's supervillain profiles.

 

VENGEANCE  
G-C-I-4649673-A-L-6

LEVEL: 6  
SERVICE: Active  
DUES: Partially paid  
HEADQUARTERS:

VENTURE INDUSTRIES (FORMER)  
Recently-restarted superscience facility, fully outfitted with industrial (albeit outdated) factory equipment for mass production. Staffed with est. 125 henchmen and outfitted with full security detail, as well as ample remote camera coverage across the compound.  
Weapons: Level 6-05 (Medium-intensity motion-detecting lasers, henchmen with small antipersonnel weapons and body armor, tactical missiles in development, possible other unknown superscience paraphernalia.)

ATTACK MODES:  
Currently unknown.

 

There was more information further down the page on his 'backstory' and sidekick, but The Monarch's blood was boiling far too much to get through more than a word of it. Pinned to the paper was a photo of a man whom he clearly recognized to be Dr. Venture, pointed beard and all. Except that he was wearing some ridiculous bright blue eyewear and what looked like black spandex, rather than his everyday "speedsuit".

"He can't be a supervillain! He's— he's, like, a good guy! _The goodest guy!_ " The Monarch practically _whined_ , getting up from his chair to frustratedly slap the papers down on the ground, where they scattered in a messy pile. He then dramatically shook his fists up at the ceiling. "Dr. Venture is a god damn goody two shoes!"

"Sweetie — no offense, but do you _know_ Dr. Venture?" Dr. Mrs. The Monarch crossed the cocoon's control room to gently place a hand on his arm, smiling in what she hoped was a soothing fashion. "For as long as we've arched him, he's been... _kind of_ an asshole."

The Monarch slumped a little, staring dejectedly at the print-outs resting at their feet. "But... this was my whole thing! Arching him was my _thing!_ " He wobbled a bit, and fell backwards into his chair. "What the hell am I supposed to do now? I can't just — arch a supervillain!"

"Maybe we can work something out," his wife murmured comfortingly, carefully patting the side of his head that wasn't eclipsed by a giant crown. "I have a few ideas. Let's take a look at that new target they assigned you."

—

"Dude! You have _totally_ got to come arch us! That would be, like, so freaking cool! Me and White have been trying to get an archenemy for years!"

Rusty held the phone away from his ear a little further, cringing at the "boy genius's" very loud enthusiasm causing the speaker to crackle with static. "Arching isn't that _easy_ , Billy. Do you have any idea how many documents I have to sign and initial just to _start_ arching someone? I can't just get up in the morning and decide, 'hey, I want to make Billy Quizboy's life hell today!'. It doesn't work that way."

"Come on, you don't have to tell the Guild! It can just be, like, a 'for fun' thing. Like a practice arching. You just started!" He could practically hear Billy swooning over the phone. "Being arched by Rusty Venture, Boy Adventurer, turned to the forces of evil — _so awesome!_ I had a dream about that once!"

Though he groaned in irritation, Rusty actually felt himself coming around to the idea. Even with the mixed feelings he still had over arching his brother, it had genuinely felt _good_ , like he had accomplished something for once. And it'd been well over a week since then, with no newly assigned archenemy to throw himself at, only a lot of papers and pamphlets to go through.

They weren't exactly difficult targets, either. Even with a superscience lab, J.J. had been blindsided by their attack. Meanwhile, Billy and White lived in a fucking _trailer_. And seeing Brock take his knife out would probably be enough to make both of them wet their pants.

"I'll have to ask Brock," he finally admitted, leaning back in his chair.

"Holy shit, _Brock_ is arching with you?" He could practically feel Billy's incredulousness through the phone.

"Yup. My number two and everything." That left Rusty feeling a little smug for some reason, smiling to himself. "And if he _does_ say yes, then you'd better be careful tonight, _Quizboy._ You wouldn't want to be caught unprepared... for Vengeance."

He hung up dramatically before giving Billy the chance to answer, closing his eyes and folding his hands behind his head as his smile grew.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

—

It'd taken some convincing, but Brock had ultimately agreed to join him on his little unofficial outing. Since Billy and White were considerably "small time" in comparison to Jonas, they'd decided not to take any henchmen along, or the X-1 for that matter. A handicap, of sorts. If anything, the fact that it was just the two of them had seemed to make Brock more amicable to the idea.

To be fair, it wasn't entirely for the benefit of their arches of the evening. Rusty hadn't told Dr. Killinger about their plans, and he wanted to keep it that way. So instead of a jet, they took Brock's car, probably the only vehicle in the compound without the Vengeance logo and color scheme.

(Not that Killinger hadn't offered, which had ended with Brock looking at him like he wanted to tear his face off for even suggesting he deface his Charger.)

Rusty peered out the car window thoughtfully as Immigrant Song played loudly in the background, letting his cheek rest in the cradle of his palm. He only turned away from the expanse of fields and power lines when Brock pointedly lowered the volume on the stereo, prompting him to look up at his 'number two'.

"So. Plan of action?" Brock said calmly, cocking his head over at him, eyes darting between Rusty's face and the road every now and then.

"I figure we rush in, hogtie them, and you trash their place for spare cash while I make a speech about how great I am."

"Classy."

Rusty flashed him a smirk, turning his attention back to the window.

It wasn't long before they reached the address of 'Conjectural Technologies', approximately _absolute middle of nowhere_ , pulling over to the side of the road and approaching the trailer. Curiously enough, all the lights were out.

"What, did they forget I was coming and go to bed?" Rusty said incredulously, trying the doorknob. Surprisingly enough, it was unlocked.

"Things might not be as they seem, Doc," Brock glanced around, following closely behind him as he stepped inside. "Could be a trap."

The superscientist cut his voice to a whisper as soon as they crossed the threshold, glaring over his shoulder. "I told you to call me 'Vengeance' when we're arching."

His larger companion rolled his eyes, not even dignifying that with a response.

The two of them slowly, cautiously moved through the cramped little enclosure Billy and White called home. It was far more crowded than the last time he'd been here — the pair seemed to just accumulate more and more junk, most of it vaguely technological in nature, such as various computer parts.

He casually tipped a table over, and fondly recalled how only a year or two ago he'd been here upturning all of their furniture, searching for the shrink ray they'd bought from him. That had been out of necessity at the time (well, in Rusty's opinion — White and Billy had not been pleased), but now, he was doing it out of pure malice. There was something kind of satisfying about fucking up someone's place just because you could.

Rusty had just been about to open a random laptop when Billy's voice suddenly rang through the darkness, shadows moving near them, flanking a blinding light that hadn't been there a second ago. "Now!"

"Shit! Doc, get down!"

He felt himself flung against the ground under the bulk of Brock's weight, the sound of something like a laser soaring overhead and crashing into the wall. It'd missed them by inches. The larger man was quick to roll off of him, lunging at the source of the disturbance, which sent Billy and White scrambling, judging by the sound of panicked footsteps.

Rusty disorientedly picked himself up off the floor, only to very narrowly find himself hopping out of the way of another blast, staring at the source with wide eyes.

Pete White was staring back at him, grin barely visible in the dark as he held up a smoking weapon, the light in the middle of the barrel spinning and brightening as it charged another blast. "Laser cannon, Rust."

The faint whine of the cannon reaching full power was all the warning he had to leap out of the way with a yelp of alarm, leaving him faceplanting into some couch cushion in desperate need of a cleaning.

Before he could react, an uncannily pale arm dressed in white bent around his neck, yanking him so that his back was flush against a gaunt chest. A wide circle of metal pressed to the side of his face, faintly warm.

Rusty slowly looked over with a dumbfounded look on his face. That faint whine of the weapon charging was much, much louder now. White was holding him hostage with a gun to his head.

"Got your number one, Brock."

"Yeah?" There was a grunt and some shuffling noises before Brock emerged from behind an overturned desk, holding Billy's impressive cranium in a tight headlock, his other hand holding a broad knife to the side of his face. Billy grunted and strained against the spandex-clad cords of muscle threatening to cut off his air supply, visibly unhappy with the sharp blade so close to his throat. Brock was smirking, his voice a gravelly whisper. "Got yours, too."

Pete paused, then said carefully, "I guess we're at a stalemate, then."

"Guess we are."

A long silence followed, broken by nothing but Billy's sounds of complaint and the humming of a makeshift laser cannon. Rusty squirmed, flinching at feeling the mouth of the barrel press tighter to his cheek in response.

Eventually, he felt White's shoulders shrug behind him. "So... you guys wanna have some nachos or what?"

They did.

—

"That was... actually a lot of fun," said Rusty upon their safe return. They were both seated in the living room on the couch, about a cushion's length apart. He'd gotten a six pack of beer out of the fridge and was currently sharing it with the larger man, who had never known the scientist to be much of a drinker, and yet here they were.

"Yeah," Brock found himself admitting, which surprised him greatly. J.J. had felt more like a formality, a boring play he didn't want to participate in. This — their little fight, which had continued on in a few laser cannon skirmishes inbetween nacho breaks — had been _fun_ , in some fucked up way. "It was."

It wasn't the same as, say, carving his way through thirty-five henchmen on his way to save Doc and the boys from peril, but evil — admittedly — had its own perks. Brock had even found himself grinning when "Vengeance" delivered some entirely too dramatic speech mid-fight after successfully capturing Pete and Billy both. Ultimately, he didn't think it was his style, but he could see how so many people got caught up in the theatrics.

Rusty took a long drink of his second beer, then lowered it, smiling clumsily at him. He'd removed the costume's eyewear and his gloves, set aside on the table.

"I can't believe you're doing this with me."

Brock actually felt himself chuckle, running a hand through his hair. Everything felt a little warmer and fuzzier around the edges after a couple beers. "Me either, Doc."

The scientist laughed a little as he set his beer down, then bit his lip for a long moment, looking away. His expression was mellowing, he noted, becoming more somber. That was never a good sign.

Finally, Doc looked up at him with the kind of raw honesty that he only ever revealed while intoxicated in some fashion. "What the hell are we doing?"

Brock didn't have an answer for that. He really didn't. He was remembering, now, that the reason Doc usually didn't drink was because it made him actually reflect on things.

"The boys barely look at me," Rusty mumbled drunkenly, glancing away, looking for a moment like he was about to start tearing up. "I saw you— I saw you put Billy in a headlock, I nearly gave White a concussion. I'm gonna be making more money than ever and it's almost all off the backs of inventions that I _stole_. From my _brother_ , of all people."

"I'll talk to the boys," Brock said quietly. He didn't address the rest. What could he say to any of it? It was entirely true.

"I'm not—" The smaller man's voice suddenly caught in his throat, looking up at him again. "a good person, Brock."

Not that long ago, he would've agreed. And he wasn't sure if he didn't agree, now. Thaddeus S. Venture was truly someone most wouldn't qualify as a 'good person', whether they knew him as a friend or not.

But that didn't stop Brock from feeling the urge to comfort him, or from reaching out a hand to rest upon his, leaning in a little. "You're not a bad person either, Doc."

Rusty's comparatively small fingers twisted under his own to make a small handhold, cupping against his palm. He looked down at their joined hands, then up again with something vulnerable in his gaze, something small and scared that wouldn't be there if not for the alcohol. It made him feel less like he was looking at Rusty Venture, the man, and more like he was looking at Rusty Venture, the boy. Just a terrified, traumatized little kid.

Doc gave him a fragile little smile, and he smiled back despite himself. This entire thing was a farce — he was here on an assignment from the O.S.I., not to genuinely be Doc's 'number two', or his _confidante_. But something in him desperately wanted to protect that smile.

And maybe, just maybe, not being the best person didn't mean that you were _bad_ , that you didn't deserve people caring about you.

The sound of Rusty's wristwatch going off startled them both terribly, ruining the moment as the scientist jerked his hand back, fumbling with the device to get it working. After a second, an all-too-familiar voice rang through the speaker. "Hello? Is this— is this thing on?"

"The _Monarch_?" Rusty said incredulously, narrowing his eyes. "What the hell are you doing calling me? How did— How did you even get this number?"

"Ah. Hello, ' _Vengeance_ '," Monarch spat, before his lips curled into a wicked smile. "I'm calling to inquire about a 'team-up'."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **This chapter is the reason for the graphic violence warning** , so be prepared! Brock kills some angry animals, basically, and as you'd expect it's a bit gory. Feel free to skim or skip to the end if you need to.

Brock had been uneasy about the idea of teaming up with The Monarch at first. The man was so wildly obsessed with Doc and his 'revenge' (for what, exactly, Brock had never been able to ascertain) that, quite frankly, he wouldn't have put it past him to try and 'arch' a supervillain.

But so far, they'd been nothing but accomodating. Monarch's wife, 'Sheila' as she had introduced herself, had been more than willing to answer any questions they had about the Guild, proving herself surprisingly knowledgable on Guild law and adjacent subjects.

He'd actually stubbornly refused this entire thing to begin with, but as Doc had pointed out, they'd been without an archenemy for a while, and it would potentially be even longer until their reassignment. An offer to arch with The Monarch, while dubious in its legitimacy, was a good opportunity to arch without strings attached, and perhaps gain some reputation in the Guild for rubbing elbows with an established villain.

He didn't care about any of that, not when he was here as a spy, rather than a genuine supervillain hoping to earn any reputation — something he admittedly kept forgetting to an unsettling degree. But Doc cared, and it would've been suspicious to refuse. So Brock had then reluctantly agreed, and they'd set off to the Cocoon the very next morning.

Their target, The Monarch revealed, was a 'protagonist' he had been so recently assigned that this would actually be their first encounter. One "Captain Jaguar", a name that honestly sounded like it belonged to a supervillain more than a superhero.

Brock leafed through the papers spread out on the shiny purple table in front of them. Superscientist, super experiments, Jaguar DNA experiment accident, Jaguar mutation, Jaguar powers. It was all fairly cut and dry. The backstory, too, sounded more akin to a supervillain, but apparently he'd stuck to the forces of good, using his newfound agility and reflexes to fight off any threats.

"So we're fighting a giant cat?" Rusty scoffed sarcastically, crossing his arms. "Been there, done that. The worst part is always the smell. They like to _mark their territory_."

The Monarch made a face, looking disgusted.

"Doesn't really seem like something that requires four people." Brock looked up from the dossier, a hint of suspicion in his tone. The guy didn't seem to have a sidekick, a bodyguard, anything. Like Doc said, he'd fought hybrids before on numerous occasions — once you got past their gimmicks, putting them down was easy.

"Yeah, well, don't judge a book by its cover," The Monarch scoffed, holding out a wine glass so that a henchman could fill it with champagne. "You know that bit about 'jaguar experiments'? Where do you think he got the DNA for that?"

Brock shrugged, as did his companion beside him.

"Jaguar sperm bank?" Rusty offered sarcastically.

"His own personal zoo," Sheila continued in her husband's place while he sipped his drink. "He's had a very successful jaguar breeding project for the past twenty years. Rumors say it's cloning. But he'll have somewhere in the ballpark of 30 jaguars freely roaming the facility, all under his control."

"Oh," Rusty said quietly as realization set in. That was certainly a complication.

"And that's why we came to you." Sheila smirked pleasantly, not at Rusty, but at Brock. "While we _could_ brute force it with henchmen, that would be quite the loss. But surely the famous Brock Samson would have no trouble at all with a few wildcats."

Brock felt his face slowly break into a grin as he caught on. They wanted him to slaughter his way through, more or less. And it wouldn't be 'good guy henchmen', real people with lives that he, as an undercover O.S.I. agent, was sworn to protect. Just wild, angry animals.

Fair game, more or less.

"Sounds like fun."

—

They'd been assigned a temporary room of their own to relax in while the Cocoon made its slow trek to the so-called Jaguar Cage. Some sort of extravagant spare bedroom presumably saved for special guests, lavishly decorated in shades of purple with gold butterfly accents. Gaudy, but at least it was far better than the cramped cells they were accustomed to as far as the Monarch's "hospitality" went.

"Well, this is an eyesore," Rusty grumbled quietly. If his companion had any opinions on the choice in decor, he kept them quiet.

A bit of smalltalk ensued about the impending mission and how they were going to handle it, but they were soon left sitting on the bed beside each other in heavy silence. Rusty actually found himself missing the boys a little — their presence meant moments of quiet were rare, whereas being alone with Brock in the same room made them a common occurrence.

That wasn't always a bad thing, but here, it felt utterly stifling. Being in the Monarch's honeymoon suite was weird enough without spending the time sitting next to another man, both dressed in ridiculous costumes.

"Ssso," Rusty said, clearing his throat.

Brock glanced over at him, but didn't say anything. Rusty shifted awkwardly on the mattress, and flinched when his hand accidentally nudged into the larger man's.

Normally, he would've instantly drawn away. But he felt reminded, potently, of the night before. The tension in the air, the alcohol-blurred corners of his vision. How warm his hand had felt in Brock's own. How the man had placed it there, himself. And now, his bodyguard-turned-partner wasn't making any attempt to draw it away.

Very slowly, Rusty turned over Brock's hand, gently knitting those large fingers with his own.

He didn't even know why the hell he was doing this, or why his heart picked up in his chest when he did. It was comforting, in some way. Yet in another fashion, it made him so nervous that he wanted to run out of the room.

But Brock didn't pull away. He didn't look at him, either, but he didn't remove his hand.

And so they stayed like that, sitting in a slightly less awkward silence than before, until their arrival.

—

Of course The Monarch was going to betray him. He'd planned on betraying him since the very start.

Sure, he didn't have any concrete plans on _how_. But there were plenty of options. He'd just have to wait until the perfect opportunity presented itself.

"After you," he said with the fakest smile in his repertoire, gesturing in front of him to Venture and his ridiculous powerhouse of a 'sidekick'. Samson's presence complicated things, admittedly — the man had been suspicious of his motives from the start, as well as being big and freakishly strong enough to crush his trachea with a mere clench of his fist if he so desired.

But lucky for him, Samson was about to be occupied with 30-some cheetahs after his neck. Jaguars. _Whatever._ That would give him ample time to figure out something on the sabotage front.

He grinned mirthfully at his beautiful wife as they stepped in after Venture and his Swedish brute.

The entrance to the Jaguar Cage was set up not unlike an indoor museum, with large, empty rooms beset with expensive paintings of wildcats in various states of repose. The entryway had an adjacent room to the left and right, each leading off into corridors and still more rooms. Venture had been right - this place reeked.

Unfortunately, also not unlike an indoor museum, it was outfitted with invisible laser trip wires, which Venture obviously bumbled into at the first opportunity, the fluorescent lights switching off to be replaced with bright red. A distant alarm sounded from somewhere deeper inside, making their presence known.

"The Monarch, is it?" A man's voice soon came on over the crackling loudspeaker, distorted as if it'd been perpetually spliced with a growl. It sounded smug, eager even. "Thank you for giving me a warning, however meager, before this scheduled arching. I look forward to seeing how you get on with my... pets."

"I look forward to seeing how my fist gets on with your _face_!" He shouted in reply. Venture's eyeroll was far from subtle, something he countered with a glare.

The echoing sounds of steel cages snapping open trailed in from neighboring rooms, as well as a growing cacophony of growls. The Monarch took a step back, resting a tense hand on his grappling hook, knowing he'd need it to whisk himself and the missus to safety if Samson wasn't quick enough about dispatching these beasts.

The blond already had his knife out, grinning in that particularly unnerving way of his, crouching into a combat-ready stance. It occurred to him that he'd probably had the knife out since they first walked through the door. Perhaps even prior to that.

It was a little strange that a man who enjoyed killing so very much hadn't turned to villainy sooner, really.

A yelp sounded from Venture as the first jaguar made its appearance, leaping straight for him, only to be cut off by a bowie knife slicing open its jugular. Venture visibly cringed at the arterial spray splashing across him, taking a few steps back, only to be menaced by another lunging for him, which Brock cut into as well.

"Looks like they really like you, Doc—" He cleared his throat, smirking. "Sorry. 'Vengeance'."

"I hope Killinger's willing to foot the bill for my damn dry cleaning after this," Venture groused. The Monarch raised a brow. Killinger? He knew that name from somewhere, but he didn't have much time to think about it, putting some distance between himself and the large man's imposing figure.

This left Samson as the most prominent target for the incoming wildcats, which he took left and right. They were quickly learning their best chance was to gang up on him, which managed to knock him to the ground for a moment, at least until he had the chance to slice open one's belly, blinding another with a cut across the eyes, and jamming the knife upward straight through one's jaw up into its brain.

"I see you've brought your friends, Monarch," a more displeased growl came over the speaker. "I did not see anything in your declaration of archvillainy mentioning a team-up."

"Deal with it!" He responded loudly, shaking his fist in his best guess of what direction the inevitable security camera was in. "Unscheduled team-ups happen, like, all the time. It was a rush decision."

"Your only warning came two hours before this."

" _It was a super rush decision!_ "

Samson was a tornado of blood and gore, as impressive as it was sickening, his eyes wide and eager with bloodlust as he tore through assailant after assailant. He had long lost count of how many had attacked and subsequently been punished for it, and even Venture, for all he should've been used to it by now, was staring in awe.

"They're thinning out," Samson gasped loudly. Slice, rip, jab. "We should be able to start moving forward soon."

"And what, risk one of those things getting us from behind? We're safest here at the entrance until you take care of them," The Monarch argued, then found himself accidentally slapped in the cheek by what seemed to be a chunk of intestine flung from the large man's knife. "Oh, _gross!_ "

Sheila hesitated. "If we have Samson bring up the flank—"

"Then that just leaves us vulnerable in the front!"

"Yes, but—"

"Save your arguing," Samson roared distractedly as he sliced a cat's head clean from its neck. It landed on the floor in front of them with a sickening thud. He turned and threw his knife with expert aim, then pulled another from his belt. "He could escape if we take too long—"

Suddenly, all at once, Samson froze. Venture followed his gaze, then stiffened as well, gasping. His wife had a similar reaction. It took a moment, in the haze of gore and bloody jaguar print, for him to make out what they were all gawking at.

And then he saw it.

_Oh._

Samson had seen something he'd thought to be just another jaguar out of the corner of his eye, surely. An easy mistake. But he'd been dead wrong.

Captain Jaguar was standing there himself, having come to join the fight. Except his face was fixed in a dead-eyed expression of shock, stemming from the bowie knife jutting a few inches out of the center of his forehead.

Blood began to trickle from the knife as his eyes rolled back into his head, and Captain Jaguar collapsed backward to the ground, motionless. The remaining cats, no longer under his control, scattered from their master in instinctive fear, fleeing deeper into the building.

In other words, "Vengeance" and his companion had just committed their first kill. On a first arching. And not even his own arch-nemesis, no less.

Forget about sabotage or betrayal. The punishment they were going to receive from the Guild would be bad enough, as well as whatever vestiges they held of their good-guy consciences.

"Shit," Samson whispered, near-soundlessly.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's left a comment or kudos so far, or just stopped by to read this in general! Your feedback and support is super encouraging!
> 
> [I have a tumblr now](http://tsv.tumblr.com/), stop by and leave some VB-related prompts in my inbox if you like, or just say hi!

Brock had been through Captain Jaguar's dossier seven times that night. His entire backstory, his friends, his foes — all of it, front to back.

Environmental activism related to big cat preservation. A mild tobacco addiction at one point. Estranged wife, likely related to his mutation rather than any personal matter. Proud member of the Society of Animal-Adjacent Beings. An ally to various protagonists with environmentalist leanings.

The man's only crime was being so far from notable that most people hadn't even heard of him. But by all accounts, he'd been a good man, working for justice. He'd done a lot of good things.

And he'd killed him. Accident or not, Brock had been there to wreck the man's day to begin with, on a team-up with an established supervillain. He'd even killed a few dozen of the man's pets, which were _endangered species._ Fuck, he'd been _eager_ to do it.

What the hell had he been thinking?

What the hell was the O.S.I. going to say?

"Brock," came Rusty's voice, pulling him from his stupor. He'd been sitting in their living room, having changed into jeans and a t-shirt after a shower to wash the blood off, holding the dossier and staring at it distantly as if it might offer up answers.

Looking up, he was surprised to find Doc in one of his old speedsuits for the first time in weeks, looking at him with an expression that was hard to place. Doc's thin fingers reached out, coming to gently rest on his bicep.

They lingered there, for a moment, like he was testing the waters. And then Rusty sat down beside him, letting his hand trail downwards toward Brock's own, gently prying the dossier from his grasp and placing it upside-down on the coffee table.

Brock allowed it, feeling a small sigh rattle out of his lungs.

He didn't like the sympathetic look he was getting. He always hated being on the receiving end of pity. And it took fucking up big time for Doc, of all people, to pity you. At least the scientist didn't waste his time on words of comfort.

"What the hell are we doing?" Brock said quietly, staring blankly ahead, echoing his companion's question from the night before.

He felt Rusty slump against him, head resting against his shoulder, heard the man whisper. "I don't know."

—

The very next day, they received an unwelcome visitor in the form of an O.S.I. limo parked in front of the compound, flanked with agents clad in black suits and sunglasses.

Rusty tried to ask what the hell they were doing there, only to be told they were there for "Agent Samson" and little else. That in itself was bizarre enough, considering Brock had quit the organization well over a week ago.

After enough of them refusing to relent, he buzzed the man on his communicator watch, sitting himself down on the front steps. "Brock? There's some O.S.I. agents out front asking for you. What should I tell them?"

"Shit, seriously?" Brock looked — and sounded — alarmed. "I'll be right out. Just tell them to wait right there."

So he, as well as the agents with their arms folded and their critical gazes, waited. When Brock finally sprinted outside, it was in his 'civilian clothes', which was a little unusual. Did he not want them to see him in his supervillain costume?

Rusty waited nearby as they had a brief conversation in hushed tones that he couldn't make out, putting his hands on his hips a little indignantly. Finally, Brock turned to him with a grimace.

"I need to go back to O.S.I. Headquarters, Doc. Shouldn't take long."

"For what? I thought you were done with these people." Rusty tapped his foot.

Brock averted his eyes, and Rusty felt himself grow mildly suspicious. "Dunno. Probably just a formality or something. Don't worry about it."

One of the two agents beside him opened the door to the limo, and Brock stepped inside, his exaggerated bulk barely managing to fit. They shut the door behind him and got in, leaving Rusty staring after them as the vehicle pulled away.

Something about this wasn't right.

"Follow your heart, Dr. Venture," came a croak from behind him, and he damn near jumped out of his skin at finding Killinger there. "Do vhat it is telling you."

"Jesus! God! How long have you been there?!" Rusty adjusted his glasses with a scowl. "You gotta stop sneaking up on me like that."

Killinger nodded and left, leaving him alone with nothing but the words settling unpleasantly in his mind. "Follow your heart"? "Do what it tells you"? Well, what the hell was his heart trying to tell him, exactly?

_Brock was lying about something._

Rusty wasn't certain he even _wanted_ to go down that avenue of inquiry. Brock and him had plenty of secrets between them — they were both fine with that. And yet, he couldn't shake the notion that something wasn't right here. Something big.

So he 'followed his heart'. He went to Brock's room.

It was rare that Rusty ever ventured inside his bodyguard's abode. Brock gave him his privacy, and in return, he was all too happy to return that kindness. Not to mention the fact that, on more than one occasion, Brock had accidentally punched him on pure reflex for the crime of ducking into his room to ask for a quick favor. He'd learned to stop asking for quick favors without knocking first.

It didn't look much different from the last time he'd seen it, considering that Brock's room and the boys' room were two of the only places left untouched by the new Vengeance decor. With trembling hands, as if fearing Brock would suddenly, inexplicably teleport in and slug him in the jaw for daring to touch his shit, Rusty crossed the room and sat down on the bed, quietly inhaling the faint scent of aftershave and cigarette smoke that seemed to cling to the furniture.

As expected, nothing happened. It didn't do much to soothe his uneasiness, but it was a step.

For lack of a better place to start, his hand went to the nightstand. He tried not to feel creeped out by the eyeball suspended in a glass jar on top of it, even though he knew it belonged to Molotov. (He'd told Brock on numerous occasions how creepy that was. Apparently, that didn't bother him whatsoever.)

The jar rattled slightly as he pulled the top drawer open. Inside were condoms — numerous, all labeled 'X-tra Large', which Rusty couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy over. A couple bottles of lubrication, probably for anal and vaginal respectively. Underneath that, a ball-gag and handcuffs — seriously? He hurriedly closed that particular drawer, understanding it to be for only one purpose.

Slowly, he opened the second drawer. Here were items of a more _sentimental_ nature. A box of Zeppelin tapes. A Rush CD he recognized as the birthday present he'd given Brock some six years ago. A framed portrait of the two of them and his sons together, looking spectacularly awkward. A box of neatly arranged polaroids, the topmost one a photograph of what appeared to be a far younger Brock, wearing a military uniform with a freshly shaved head.

And on top of it all, a manila folder with a piece of paper poking out, Brock's terse handwriting scrawled across what he could see of it.

He picked that up and closed the drawer, straightening up and removing the document from its covering.

Rusty froze as his eyes scanned the page.

He would've thought it impossible that Brock could've possibly left the O.S.I. for him, not before being told by the man himself. A ridiculous notion. He wasn't worth that much. Not to Brock, not to anyone. Brock had, for all their friendly banter, consistently made it clear that in the end, he was another job.

There was ultimately no commitment, and he'd lived in fear and anticipation of the day Brock's patience for him wore too thin. Some days, he thought the only reason his bodyguard was still here was the boys.

The idea that Brock _had_ , in fact, done something as absurd as deserting the O.S.I. had been part of his own changing ideas of self-worth, and his own changing ideas of what Brock meant to him. Certainly, it wasn't the first time Brock had gone along with one of his ridiculous ideas, but he typically only did so when it was convenient. This was a commitment. A commitment to _him_ , and his stupid flights of fancy. Villainy, of all things.

He'd been flattered. He'd been honored. Rusty had felt, more than ever, like Brock was family. Perhaps some small, deeply repressed part of him had even began to think of the man as _more_ than that.

But here was a half-finished letter addressed to the O.S.I., dated _after_ Brock's supposed resignation. More than a letter — a _report_. Going over his activities in excruciating detail, with particular attention given to Killinger.

Signed neatly with Brock's name, and his O.S.I. agent ID number.

Rusty dropped the paper on the ground, leaning forward to rest his head in his hands.

—

"Do you remember what your duties were for this assignment, Agent?" Treister's voice was slow, deathly calm.

"To observe and record Dr. Venture's activities, as well as those of Dr. Henry Killinger, sir," Brock replied coolly, quoting his assignment verbatim, even if he knew the answer didn't matter.

"And what did you do?" General Treister rose from his seat, violently slamming his calloused palms on the desk. "You went off and killed a fucking protagonist is what you did! Exactly what the hell was going through that pretty little blond head of yours, Samson?!"

Brock sat in silence, trained not to look away, much as he wanted to. He didn't know what else to say. "It was an accident."

"And arching with The Monarch! A level 7 Guild villain! Was that another _accident_?"

"That wasn't my idea, Sir—"

"But you went along with it, and Venture couldn't have done it without _you_! We _saw_ the security tapes! That was a bloodbath, courtesy of _you_!" Treister was gripping the edge of the mahogany, a vein bulging in his forehead. "You are way the hell out of line!"

He tried to mentally calculate just how much sass he could get away with here. This was starting to get on his nerves — he couldn't stand these lectures from his superiors, always boiling down to an excuse to shout and intimidate more weak-willed soldiers into breaking down. "Cut to the _point_. What's the punishment you've got set up for me, General?"

"I'm taking you off this assignment."

A moment's pause. Brock's eyes widened.

"Wait— what? You can't— we don't have enough info. I'm the only one close enough—"

"We have an eager replacement lined up." Treister cut him off, as if it weren't up for debate. "Meanwhile, you'll be put on a mission that should work out your problem behaviors."

"No," Brock grit his teeth, raising his voice, feeling his temper rising. "Put me back on the mission. Doc isn't going to trust—"

Treister slammed his hands on the desk again, then paced across the room to get in his face. "If you're so eager to go play villain with the Venture boy, then I'll give you a god damn ultimatum, Samson! Either you accept your reassignment or quit! Because you sure as hell won't be doing it on O.S.I. payroll!"

The color drained from Brock's face. His mouth hung open.

Treister's tone lowered to a dangerous hiss. "So what's your _decision,_ son?"

This should've been an easy choice. Obvious to anyone.

And yet, Brock's voice was stuck in his throat. Rusty's face flashed in his mind, then each of the boys.

The organization he'd dedicated over half his life to. America. Justice. The 'good guys'. Or a tiny, miserable failure of a man. A pathetic, morally corrupt little wretch. A _supervillain_.

Easy. A no-brainer.

_Just say it._

Brock closed his eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

When he finally returned to the compound, dropped off by the same limo that had picked him up to begin with, Brock found Rusty waiting for him inside of the lobby. Something like relief swelled in him at the sight, despite everything else going on. Seeing Doc felt like home.

Unfortunately, that feeling was short-lived when Rusty's face abruptly contorted into anger upon seeing him, the smaller man getting up from his seat and marching over to jab a finger into Brock's chest. " _You've_ got some explaining to do!"

Brock sighed heavily. "Listen. The O.S.I. just wanted—"

"To what?" Rusty cut him off. He looked more livid than he'd seen him in a long time, complexion red, eyes wide and angry. "To ask you about your _reports_ on me? Because you're still fucking working for them?"

Brock felt the words die in his throat, a feeling like ice running down his spine. Shit. He _knew_. How the hell did he find out?

"What did Killinger tell you?" He began, slowly.

"He didn't tell me anything, I found the damn report in your room myself!"

"You went through my _room_? Doc—" Brock felt himself starting to get pissed off, while at the same time feeling guilty, like he didn't have the right to be.

"I can't believe you!"

"Doc. Listen, I'm not—"

"You've been feeding them everything about me from the start! Did you ever actually care about this to begin with? Did you ever care about _me_?"

" _Doc._ I just—"

"You never even picked a name!"

"DOC!" Brock roared.

Rusty's voice, barely coherent, still strained to reach over his, hurt plainly written into the man's face. But Brock wasn't listening anymore.

He grit his teeth, crossed the gap between them, and yanked Doc up by the front of his uniform, high enough that his feet were left dangling off the ground. Then he snatched him in a rough, aching kiss before he could think about it long enough to regret it, desperate to just shut him up already.

Rusty went abruptly still all at once, eyes widening behind his glasses.

It was wet, clumsy and awkward. Not exactly the most ideal of first kisses. But more importantly, it _worked_ , leaving Rusty staring at him breathlessly after the brief liplock ended, something confused and bright and painfully hopeful in his eyes.

"I quit the O.S.I., Doc. _Today_." Brock's voice was low and serious, though the words barely felt real leaving his mouth. He carefully placed the smaller man back on his feet, letting go of his outfit. "For good."

Rusty still looked dumbfounded, glasses uneven. It took him a moment to reply, blinking slowly. "You— you kissed me."

"Yeah," Brock sighed, then looked away, feeling a humorless chuckle slip out of him as he ran his hand over his face. He could hardly believe it himself. Why was everything in his life so fucked up? "I did."

A small, uncertain hand grabbed a fistful of his t-shirt, and when he looked down, he found Doc staring up at him. Those fingers gently tugged downwards, as if in invitation.

"Do it again," Rusty said quietly.

Brock stared back, feeling a little disarmed.

He'd never envisioned himself going in this direction in life, in more ways than one. And yet, wherever Doc went, apparently, so did he. If Doc went into villainy, then so, too, did he, no matter how absurd that was.

The man drove him insane sometimes, but he just couldn't leave him alone. Even if it meant doing something beyond ridiculous like leaving the O.S.I., solely so he could stay here.

Because somewhere along the way, his simple feelings — wanting to protect him, to keep him and his sons safe, and hell, Brock would admit it, some part of him genuinely wanted Doc to be happy — had turned into something more. Beyond friendship, beyond family.

This tiny, miserable failure of a man. Pathetic, morally corrupt little wretch. His 'number one'.

Brock leaned down, drawing him into a wanting embrace, kissing him hard.

—

It was later that week when Dean approached his father in the lab, hovering near at first like he wanted to say something but was having trouble motivating himself to do so.

Rusty initially paid him no mind, scribbling idly on a piece of paper while he tried to come up with some kind of new invention, but ultimately accomplishing little other than a series of doodled hearts with "T.S+B" written in the middle of each.

Thanks to Killinger's intervention, the Guild had been pacified, despite his transgression — their transgression — of accidentally murdering a protagonist. A formal letter of apology and a generous financial donation (much to his chagrin) had been all it took to get the Guild off one's back, apparently.

And the paperwork his brother had so lovingly sent him would apparently take months to get through the legal system, so he'd been left with not much to do in the interim but wait to be assigned another archenemy and try to come up with something useful in the meantime.

"Dad?" Dean finally said quietly, placing his hands on Rusty's desk, prompting him to look up in surprise. The boys had largely been avoiding him since finding out about this villain business, except for matters of necessity, and in turn he'd tried to allow them their space, even if some part of him felt guilty about it. To have one of them come to him like this was, admittedly, a relief.

"What is it, Dean?"

"I think..." he said slowly. "I think I'm okay with the whole 'supervillain' thing."

A heavy silence lulled between them. Rusty blinked, as if his brain wasn't quite processing the words.

"Come again?"

"I mean, yeah, it's weird that my _dad_ is technically _evil_ and stuff, but Brock said you guys don't really _do_ that much, right?"

Rusty looked down and away, weakly shrugging his shoulders. He wouldn't have classified "industrial espionage" and "accidentally killing a guy" as "not doing much", but compared to some supervillains, he supposed it wasn't.

"And then I started, like, looking up famous supervillains, and I found a lot of stories, and Hank showed me some comics..." Dean was rambling a bit, and Rusty was finding it a little hard to pay attention, but he made his best effort. "They actually seem kind of... cool. I just never really looked at it as more than a bunch of bad guys."

"Things are never so black and white, Dean."

"I guess not."

Another silence befell them. Rusty twirled a pencil between two gloved fingers.

"So, I guess what I'm trying to say is..." Dean reached up and scratched the back of his neck. "Maybe... I could come with you and Brock? On like, your next... mission, or whatever?"

The pencil clattered to the ground.

"You want to _arch_ with us?" Rusty sputtered incredulously. " _You?_ "

Dean nodded sheepishly.

The scientist got up from his desk and rounded it, placing a hand on his son's shoulder with a proud smile, giving it a little shake. "My son." Dean was left absolutely beaming at the approval.

This was probably what people meant by "being a bad influence", but Rusty didn't even care. As if he'd been a good one _before_ this had happened.

—

"Gentlemen. I have two announcements to make, so let us cut to ze chase."

Killinger had his hands clasped in front of him, having called in both Rusty and Brock to the command center to discuss "important business". Around them, Venchmen diligently worked away at their various positions.

"First, I am reluctant to inform you zat effective tomorrow morning, I vill be leaving ze Venture Compound."

"What?" Rusty leaned forward in his chair, his expression fixed in a frown. "But you — we've — I—"

"I have other business to attend to, Dr. Venture. I have others who need my assistance more than you." Killinger smiled reassuringly. "My vork here is done. You make a fine and capable supervillain. I am confident in your ability to handle vhatever challenges arise."

Rusty's face fell even more, despite his compliments.

Meanwhile, Brock looked largely indifferent, leaning back in his chair. Killinger leaving really didn't affect him, aside from having made some things smoother around the Compound. If anything, he was glad. The guy still creeped him out.

He was just happy that Killinger had gotten him through his little costume department first — he had a far more understated outfit now, closer to his signature black t-shirt and jeans, except that the jeans had been replaced with slacks of that bright signature color he'd come to think of as "Venture blue". Killinger had insisted on a belt buckle with the giant V logo, to which Brock had reluctantly agreed.

"We don't even have our official archenemy yet," Rusty whimpered.

"Zat vould be my second announcement."

Killinger gestured to the large monitor in the center of the room, which lit up with the Conjectural Technologies logo, as well as a candid photo of Billy and White in the middle of sharing a large meatball sub.

"Wh— _seriously_? White and Quizboy?" Brock thought back to the beat-up trailer, then thought back to their own expansive headquarters, as well as their ample supply of henchmen. "Aren't we kinda _out of their league?_ "

But then he remembered how he, himself, had routinely managed to take out dozens of armed lackeys with nothing but a knife, as long as they were incompetent enough. He remembered the laser cannon that Pete and Billy had managed to whip up 'on short notice'.

Maybe Killinger had a point.

"Somevhat." Killinger nodded. "But you have _chemistry_. More than anything, chemistry is vhat fuels an arching."

Brock paused, looking over at his companion, who looked just as confused. Their 'unofficial arching' was something they'd purposely hidden from the man.

"You couldn't know that," Rusty said slowly. "Unless..."

The good doctor chortled, putting a hand to his chin. "Clients always think zey can hide things from me."

They fell into silence. Brock was more than a little creeped out by that, and now _definitely_ relieved that the man was leaving.

Killinger continued. "In months, ze legal system vill finish handling your brother's case, at vhich point you vill have the option to arch him again, if you so desire. In ze meantime, this vill act as training." He gestured to the screen. "In effect, it is a superscience rivalry. An arrangement that vill surely encourage both parties to grow."

Doc looked over at him, as if quietly asking for his approval. Brock shrugged his shoulders.

At that, the scientist smiled and clapped his hands together. "Well! When do we start?"

Killinger smiled in return. "At your vhim. I have already cleared it vith ze guild."


	9. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Ventures finally get their happy ending. And Rusty gets his happy ending, so to speak, finally justifying the Explicit rating on this.

The next couple of months were hectic, but entertaining in their own way. White and Quizboy had been more than happy to engage their new archenemies, and proved themselves surprisingly competent despite their difference in firepower (and manpower, for that matter). They'd made a habit of dropping by the trailer at least once a week, now.

The Monarch had been reluctant to give up on his persistent hatred of Dr. Venture, and so they'd had to deal with what were essentially unofficial archings, carefully skirting the Guild of Calamitous Intent's laws on mutual villain aggression. While initially an annoyance, Rusty seemed to be actually _enjoying_ it for once, perhaps because now he was able to retaliate with tactical missiles and henchmen of his own.

Dean had been initially slow to learn arching, hampered by the fact that he was fighting people he considered friends. But by the end of the second week, he'd managed to disarm Billy's freeze ray and hold him hostage for a few moments, even if it was promptly ruined by him accidentally dropping the knife he was holding. Still, Doc had never looked so proud. (Hell, Brock was proud of him, too.)

Hank had been more distant, hesitant to adapt to the change, but Brock and Rusty both gave him his space. He gravitated towards Brock in his spare time and seemed to regard the man as a kind of antihero, rather than a villain. The two had forged a stronger bond as a result.

Their swerve from superscience to supervillainy had meant less threats to their name, as well, which had led to the boys having more freedom outside the Compound. Rusty was overprotective in his own way, as usual, but having opportunities to actually visit neighboring areas and make friends routinely put Hank in better spirits.

Not that long ago, Brock would've never imagined himself in this position. Hell, not that long ago, Brock would've told you he was straight.

There were days where he regretted all of it, sat himself down and asked himself why the hell he was doing this. He'd gone from being one of the O.S.I.'s best agents to a black sheep, a Sergeant Hatred-esque deserter choosing a path of villainy. Not even his own villain, but someone else's number two. And for what?

For Doc, was the answer. He hadn't seen him this happy in years.

This entire thing was insane. They were fucking supervillains, for God's sake. But seeing Rusty smile — his rare, genuine smiles, the ones no one else got to see, the ones that thinned his eyes and wrinkled his cheeks — made Brock feel like he could do anything.

—

Rusty sighed out his exhaustion as he collapsed onto the bedsheets, staring at the ceiling. Another long day spent on little supervillain things. Additional paperwork for J.J., sending Billy and Pete each an envelope full of glitter, and teaching Dean how to fire a ray gun without getting himself killed. Being a villain was hard work.

He closed his eyes, enjoying the cool fabric of his comforter against his bare skin, having stripped down to his underwear for the evening. He thought of the day's events. He thought of his life as it was now, of his newfound relationship with Brock. And some part of him really, genuinely felt satisfied.

That was still relatively new to him. It was a good feeling.

He wasn't sure what exactly was so appealing about villainy, or why Killinger had known he would adapt to it so well. Maybe some part of him, his selfishness and his greed, was innately suited for it. Maybe he wanted to rebel against the path his father had set out for him with seemingly no escape.

Or maybe life was ultimately easier when you could order other people around to do your 'bidding', and take what you wanted by force.

Whatever the reason, the truth was simple. Dr. Thaddeus Venture undeniably enjoyed being a villain. And for now, he was completely okay with that.

"Hey, you," came a low voice from his doorway, Rusty snapping his head up to discover Brock standing there with a grin. He scrambled on the bed to cover himself, feeling embarrassed, only to find his boyfriend coming closer.

"Hey," Rusty piped with a nervous smile, which quickly turned to an expression of surprise when Brock climbed onto the bed, placing a heavy palm on either side of him. They'd been involved romantically, then sexually, for a little while now. He still wasn't used to being intimate with anyone, let alone another man, let alone _Brock_.

But that certainly didn't mean he minded.

"Think 'Vengeance' has been working too hard lately," rumbled Brock in a husky tone that sent a shiver right down to his bones, staring down at him with desire in his eyes. "Maybe he deserves a break."

"You're damn right he does," Rusty agreed with a growing smirk, grabbing his shirt and dragging his 'number two' down into a kiss.

Brock's strong biceps eclipsed his small frame, holding him closer as they rolled to the side, leaving Rusty struggling to fit two arms around his broad chest in return. He never quite appreciated the man's bulk and size the way he did up close like this, pressed against him and wrapped up in impressive muscle, relishing the feeling of warmth and _safety_.

The larger man broke the kiss only to draw his lips down to Rusty's neck, leaving a trail of smooches and the occasional hickey, punctuated by firm bites. Rusty gasped quietly, tipping his chin up in response. He felt not unlike a gazelle in the mouth of a lion whenever Brock's teeth closed over his throat, sending chills of excitement up his spine.

He squirmed and huffed as those kisses continued downward over his protruding collarbones and scrawny chest, repositioning his hands to idly play with Brock's fluffy hair. Warm lips mapped over a nipple, his ribs, the softness of his belly. Brock enjoyed taking his time like this lately, practically _worshipping_ his body, which was equal parts embarrassing and flattering.

A firm, biting kiss to one of the hollows of his hipbones left the scientist gasping and arching upwards, his fingers tightening their grip in anticipation when he felt two large thumbs curl over the edge of his briefs. Rusty _really_ hoped this was going in the direction he thought it was going, and judging by the hungry look in his boyfriend's eyes, it was.

Once the garment was out of the way, warm puffs of breath began immediately hitting his erect member, which in itself was almost enough to drive him crazy. But that was nothing compared to the large, hot mouth that then wrapped itself around him, taking him in, suckling thickly.

Oh, _fuck_.

He always went slow at the start. Just the heat of his mouth, at first. Then the slick texture of a tongue, teasing Rusty until he could barely stand it. But it didn't take long for those lips to brush the base of his cock, nose brushing against the trimmed bush of red pubic hair, the subtle dusting of freckles that had long since disappeared from anywhere else on his body.

One benefit of having such a comparatively big partner meant that Brock deep throated him like it was nothing. He was slightly jealous, admittedly — the flip side of that meant that he could barely get his lips around Brock in the beginning, let alone go nearly so deep. (He'd made progress since then, something he was quite proud of, but nonetheless.)

The larger man sucked and swallowed, causing Rusty to whine and buck a little — he always had trouble resisting thrusting into that welcoming heat. This prompted Brock to grab his ass with both hands, holding him still. Rusty squirmed helplessly at being pinned between Brock's head and his broad palms, unable to do much other than watch.

So he did. He bit his lip as he watched his boyfriend's mouth bob up and down on his flushed shaft, unable to help the resulting moan that escaped him. The sight was unbearably arousing, more than he ever could've imagined.

"You're gonna — mm — k-kill me at this rate," Rusty stammered breathlessly, laughing a little, struggling to find coherent thought. Another moan bubbled out of his throat. "—fuck — don't stop—"

His hands tugged and kneaded Brock's hair anxiously, the muscles in his thighs flexing from wanting to rock his hips. It felt absolutely incredible, like that wet, hot mouth was rubbing every inch of his aching erection, setting his nerves alight. He was already starting to feel his abdomen tensing, pressure steadily building, wanting to come but at the same time never wanting it to end. That rough tongue lathing over him felt _agonizingly_ good.

Rusty whined as it all too quickly became too much when Brock dipped down to the hilt, sucking firmly and massaging his tongue against the ridges and veins, at the same time giving his ass a tight squeeze. The muscles in his abdomen spasmed as he came hard down his boyfriend's throat with a yell, thrashing and panting, his glasses wildly askew and eyelids tightly clamped shut.

In response, Brock only sucked harder, swallowing down every last drop. Rusty felt lightheaded.

It felt like an eternity before the aftershocks subsided and he was able to open his eyes again, twitching and oversensitive, only to find Brock smirking at him and licking his lips. The man turned his head slightly, pressing a kiss to his softening member in a surprisingly tender gesture.

Rusty offered a breathless smile in return.

—

After a brief date with some Listerine and quickly jacking himself off in the bathroom, Brock returned to the bedroom to find his partner fatigued and boneless, wearing a dreamy expression on his face. He grinned as he sat down on the mattress, stripping off his clothes for the evening. Doc always got like this after a good orgasm.

Laying himself down beside him, he gently gathered up his small boyfriend into his arms. He wasn't usually one to be overly affectionate, but he enjoyed holding him like this, relishing in the feeling of skin against skin. He carefully pulled Doc's glasses away from his face to set them aside on the nightstand, the man not even seeming to notice.

"Think I finally came up with a name," Brock said quietly, tracing his thumb between Rusty's shoulderblades.

The scientist stirred, then, looking up at him in interest. He hesitated, but slowly continued.

"Fury."

Doc quirked an eyebrow.

Brock sighed and rolled his eyes a bit, feeling a little embarrassed at being prompted to explain. "You know, ah... Great vengeance and furious anger. Couldn't think of anything else—"

Rusty quietly began to chuckle, burying his face in the crook of Brock's neck, mumbling. "That is... a terrible name."

He scowled. "As if 'Vengeance' was ever a winner, Doc."

"Mmm." Rusty paused, inhaling the scent of his skin and then contently sighing out the same breath. "At least it's better than 'The Monarch'."

Brock smirked. At least they could agree on that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for everyone who's come by to comment, leave kudos, or just read the fic, period. This was an experiment as well as a labor of love, I've never written anything quite this long before. I'm so glad so many people enjoyed it.
> 
> I would love to know what you thought if you want to leave a comment, or send me a message over at my [Tumblr](http://tsv.tumblr.com/) (I take requests!). I'm also hoping to write a oneshot or two in the Vengeance universe, so look out for that at some point.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading.


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